Oxidation
by R.C. McLachlan
Summary: One of Vegeta's old enemies comes calling; Bulma is the one who answers.


"I'm bored."

Once upon a time, he would have stepped into her domain with trembling hands and wide eyes, awed into uncharacteristic silence by the glint of chrome and the whir of servos, vibrating in place with the need to touch _something_ but not sure at all where to start. Her labs were more magical than any fairytale world, more fun than any amusement park; there, she was the keeper of a great and terrible magic, capable of the most impossible feats, a creator unlike anything the world had ever seen. He used to beg her to let him come with her to work, to make him something new, something big, and would be inconsolable on the days when the bureaucracy of running a company forced her to leave him behind.

Now getting Trunks to spend a little time with her is like pulling goddamn teeth. He's six years old. Glitter glue should be the height of technological advancement for someone his age, but suddenly her lab of wonders is old hat?

"Excuse you," Bulma snaps, "I am _not_ boring."

Trunks heaves a great, world-weary sigh and practically swoons into a sulk all over one of the counters. "I want to train with Papa."

Ah, yes. Training with Papa, the great usurper. After all, why have a little fun hacking every news crawl in rotation to say that DukeTech's CEO is a giant nerd when you can just beat the shit out of a family member for hours on end?

She only has herself to blame: she was the one who OK'd Trunks to start under Vegeta's tutelage, which was such a dumb move on her part. Sometimes she can't believe she actually has a Ph. D, let alone three.

"Sorry, kiddo, but Papa's having a little bit of 'me' time." In that she told Vegeta to either find a hobby that didn't involve whining about the gravity simulator or go literally anywhere else for a while. Surprising no one, he didn't take up macramé. "So, it looks like you're stuck with boring old Mama today. I thought maybe we could do an experiment."

Trunks makes a face like he just tasted one of Goten's infamous farts. Bulma has no idea what Chi-Chi feeds that kid, but she's turning him into a walking nuclear bomb. "I don't _want_ to do an experiment, Mama. I want to train. I need to learn how to-how to make my ki stronger! Papa says I'm weak."

"Papa also says that eating cookie dough is gross, so I wouldn't put too much stock in anything he says," Bulma says. "But this is an extra cool experiment, I promise. We're going to oxidize sugar."

"Mama, that's _boring_." Trunks's forehead meets the countertop with a _thunk_. If he crashes and burns as the CEO of Capsule Corp someday, he'll have a career in theater waiting for him. "This stuff is _boring_."

She gestures to the ginormous beaker—a gift from her sister years ago and lovingly named BB—that's been seated in the gaping maw of an isomantle for the last hour, the temperature keeping the potassium chlorate inside nice and molten. "You won't be saying that when we add the sugar."

"You know what would be cool? If you could make a machine that can make my ki really strong really fast, and then Papa won't have to train me! We could do experiments together _all_ the time." He beams up at her like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Nice try, but getting strong takes time and effort. It's not something you want to cheat at." Bulma walks over to beep his nose, which wrinkles at whatever he must smell on her glove. She was handling coolant the other day. "Besides, you can't _always_ rely on ki. Strength isn't just how strong you are; it's how _smart_ you are, too. What happens when you use up all your ki but the fight isn't over?"

Trunks lifts his head and shrugs. "I won't use up all my ki. Papa's gonna show me how."

"I hate to break it to you, but Papa's been known to drain himself dry on occasion." There's a bed in the med wing on reserve for just that very purpose. The blankets have _BADMAN_ stitched into the corners in pink. When he saw them, Vegeta threatened to rip them all up and turn the earth into a barren wasteland, and yet every time his dumb ass winds up in that bed, he refuses the standard blankets and asks for his own. One of the nurses told Bulma in the strictest of confidences the first time it happened. Bulma laughed so hard she almost peed, and then immediately called Chi-Chi and Krillin.

"Not Papa," Trunks protests.

She rolls her eyes. " _Yes Papa_. And sometimes that's gonna happen, but you can't let it stop you from trying to win. Your brain is just as strong as your fists and feet, kiddo, and in a fight you've got to use _all_ your strengths."

"So, how is this stuff going to help me in a fight?" Trunks gestures to the isomantle with an unimpressed twist to his mouth.

"Well, probably not this in particular," she concedes.

Trunks rolls his eyes. "Mama!"

"But supplementing your knowledge with other things is a good idea." Turning this into a teachable moment has got to win her parent brownie points. "Chemistry is a good place to start."

"But Mama, I thought you said that only people who are too stupid to be chefs go into chemistry."

Good green god on the Lookout, but having a kid is like living with a witness for the prosecution. "Yeah, and I meant it, but sometimes when the going gets tough and you're locked in a mad scientist's lab or trapped on an alien world, you gotta use what's on hand to make a bomb."

At that, Trunks's eyes go gratifyingly large. "Did that happen to you?"

"What _hasn't_ happened to me," she mutters, then perks up. "Okay, so! Experiment. We've got, like, eight pounds of molten potassium chlorate, which is a powerful oxidizer. Do you know what an oxidizer is?"

A head shake.

"It means that when it reacts with certain substances—like sugar—in the presence of oxygen, it reacts. In this case, combusts."

Trunks blinks, then peers at the isomantle. "Why do we need eight pounds?"

"Go big or go home," she says and reaches under the table for the other component of the experiment: a five-pound gummy bear. At the sight of it, Trunks's eyes light up and victory is goddamn hers. Eat _that_ , Vegeta. "Sweetie, mind getting me a hair tie out of my desk before we start? Top right drawer."

He groans in token protest before sliding off his stool and padding into the back room.

"Get your goggles and gloves, too! We don't need to waste Shenron's time by wishing your eyes and hands back because you couldn't be bothered to follow lab safety rules!"

"You're no fun!" He shouts back, muffled.

Grinning, she rakes her fingers through her hair, pulling it off her neck, and casts the giant gummy bear a look. It stares back at her, bland, and something like guilt pulls at her. "Sorry you're about to be on fire. We appreciate your sacrifice."

The thing about explosions is that they're impossibly beautiful. Bulma was only a little younger than Trunks when her dad took her out into the desert to test the second prototype of a shot exploder that was contracted by a terraforming company that ended up folding that same year. She remembers the ridiculous sunglasses her father wore, the smell of sunscreen as he slathered it across her nose, the surprisingly small silver case—no bigger than a wallet—that contained enough explosive material to turn mountains into molehills. It took only the push of a button to undo centuries of syrup-slow creation, reducing the biggest rock Bulma had ever seen into a pile of rubble. It was a thunderstorm rising from the earth as if the sky had dropped it and forgotten about it; the dark push of black clouds and streaks of light, a symphony of death and sound.

When the lab explodes, it's nothing like that.

The floor beneath her feet shivers, as if inhaling before a scream, and then it shatters in her very bones as the world disappears in a blinding flash. She comes to on the floor, pushed painfully up against the base of one of the tables, ears ringing so deafeningly that for a terrifying second she thinks she's clinging to that rock on Namek minutes before its roaring destruction. Something twinges at her hairline and she lifts the back of her wrist to swipe at the tears gathering in the lashes of her left eye, but when she drops her hand her vision is half-smeared red. Not tears, then.

She takes stock of the lab, which is completely destroyed. The walls crumble as if they'd been constructed of paper, and everything else burns merrily. She casts around for the cabinet where the reactors are kept, but can't see them. They must have gone up and compounded the initial blast, making it that much worse.

The pain in her forehead flares brilliantly, punching a hiss out between her teeth, and there comes the press of little hands to help her sit up.

"...m…! Ma...m...! _Mama!_ "

Trunks's voice pushes past the tinny whine in her ears, and she frowns at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips. At the fear in his eyes, her stomach sinks, because her boy shouldn't be afraid of anything.

"Baby, are you hurt?" She gets it out before her throat seizes and she coughs for what feels like an eternity, Trunks's hand pressing against her diaphragm, keeping it stable. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay." His hand clutches at the lapel of her lab coat. "But you're—Mama, you're bleeding."

"Don't worry about that now. Head wounds bleed a lot. We need to get out of—"

Something metal goes skittering across the floor, and when she turns her head in the direction from which it came she sees movement.

They're not alone.

"Trunks, listen to me, listen," she whispers, ducking to bring her mouth near his ear. Her hands are trembling where she grips his shoulders, pushing him down. "You need to stay down, okay? Someone's here."

"Mama, no. I'm gonna fight," he hisses back, voice low. "I'm going to protect you."

"No, baby, not this time. I'm the adult; I'm your _mother_. I'm going to protect _you_ , okay?" She musters up a smile, but it tastes like copper. "We're in my lab: this is _my_ battlefield, and I've gotten out of way worse things than this. The brain's just as strong as fists, remember? I'll be fine. But if _my_ strength fails, if whoever this is gets by me— _that's_ when I'm going to need _your_ strength. You'll be my backup."

"Mama—"

"Trunks Briefs, I am your mother, and I am telling you to _stay here_."

The fire around them does nothing except highlight the glint of tears in his eyes as he nods. "Okay. Okay, Mama. We'll protect each other."

"Good boy," she whispers, pressing a crimson-smeared kiss over his forehead. If she squints, it looks almost like lipstick. "No matter what you think you see, you stay down until I actually need help, or I will ground you until you're dead. Promise me."

He looks mutinous, but he doesn't disobey like he clearly wants to. Vegeta hasn't gotten completely to him yet. "I promise."

With a grunt, her arm flying to curl just under her breasts, she heaves herself to her feet. Her legs threaten to buckle under her but they hold, barely. She's no medical doctor, but if the sharp pain that knifes through her with every breath is any indication, she's got a broken rib or two. Even worse, the lab coat that had been a gift from one of the world's top designers apparently isn't as fireproof as its creator purported. Awesome.

She moves slowly, deliberately, stepping around burning debris and shards of glass. All of the beakers are going to have to be replaced. What a damn waste. Doesn't anyone respect people's stuff anymore?

From the blast site swaggers a creature unlike anything she's ever seen before. Space has yielded some pretty incredible species, but this is… spectacular. Its skin is made of what looks like lepidopteran scales, soft and brilliantly rendered in greens, blues, and oranges. Huge eyes sit proudly atop stalks, but instead of moving freely the way she expects them to, they remain fixed, turning only when the rest of the body does. Its armor is familiar yet rudimentary, probably in deference to its delicate condition, but the violet insignia on its chest plate reminds her that looks can be deceiving. After all, if this thing made it into the Frieza Force, it's no pushover.

The moment it sees her, it stops, lifting a thin appendage in her direction. Sitting on top of the equivalent of its hand is a blaster glove. Definitely one of Frieza's.

"Hello," she rasps, forcing her spine straight, and nearly bites her tongue in half holding in a scream.

She hadn't seen a facial orifice before, but there's a stretch of chitin where its mouth should be that parts around a terrifying amount of teeth in a grin.

"Greetings," it says. It sounds almost cheerful.

"I'd welcome you to my lab, but I'm not in a very welcoming mood at the moment. May I help you?"

It steps forward, glass crunching under its boots, but she holds firm. "I certainly hope so. I am looking for a man."

"Oh, honey, aren't we all?" Oolong used to say that her smart mouth was going to get her killed someday. In hindsight, he was probably right. "I can't help you there, though, because I'm with someone. Kind of. It's weird. We haven't really defined anything but I don't think he'd be too happy if I went off in search of someone else. But I'll tell you what I _can_ do: I can give you the number of a couple of friends who—"

The wall behind her explodes and she jerks in surprise, yelping at the spike of pain in her ribs. Almost immediately, her hand shoots out by her hip, palm out, fingers splayed. _Stop. I'm fine. Don't move._

She can't see him, but she knows that Trunks is settling back down from where he'd been about to jump in and help.

With a warning twitch of its fingers around the palm trigger, the creature tilts its head at her. "I will not be distracted."

"Noted." She forces it out through clenched teeth. "Why are you here?"

It makes an odd _ke-ke-ke_ noise, like chittering, the mandibles on either side of its mouth scratching. "I've come to find an old friend. A saiyan, actually. He goes by the name of Vegeta. I was told he had taken up residence on this planet, in this city, in this particular location. Where might I find him?"

Saying that she's never heard of him isn't going to fly, so she says the next best thing. "He's not here."

"No?"

"Vegeta left. Months ago."

It isn't hard for her to imagine waking up to find Vegeta's side of the bed cold, his things gone. He's given her no indication that he wants to go anywhere, though. He's taken an active role, however small, in raising and training Trunks, and he's in her bed every night-and not just for the fantastic sex, either. Occasionally he lowers his guard enough to talk to her about… well, whatever's on his mind: Trunks's progress, her latest projects, comparisons between human and saiyan anatomy, the latest in idiotic fashion trends, funny tidbits from his past; the list goes on. The first time he asked her for her thoughts on Jor Numas's theories on dark matter, she almost killed him with a pair of nail scissors. In her defense, it was the kind of question that only a pod person version of him would ask. He wasn't impressed.

But the it's happening more and more, and every time becomes a little less stilted, a little easier. She looks forward to the nights where he curls as close to her as his pride will allow while she sits up against the headboard and tinkers with schematics or fixes broken code, her productivity boosted by whatever they're discussing. Last night, it was patenting alien technology for Capsule Corp's gain. She went to sleep clinging to her well-won triumph, lulled into a restful sleep by how hungry Vegeta had looked at her when she obliterated his argument. He'd been gone when she woke up, but his side of the bed was still warm.

Their relationship is the longest and, oddly enough, most stable one she's ever been in. Even so, she can't rid herself of the feeling that this is all a temporary stop for him, which is why the lie slides off her tongue so easily.

The creature makes that weird noise again, thoughtful, weighing her words. It shifts its weight, and her gaze is momentarily drawn to its boots. They're worn at the toe, the gold scratched into a dull dishwater color, and they've lost their rigidity. Not a current member of the Frieza Force, then. "I have it on good authority that Vegeta is, in fact, here. Good enough that I came all the way here from the 27th quadrant."

She shrugs, swallowing. "Your source was misinformed, then. Vegeta _was_ here for a while, but he decided that Earth held nothing more for him, so he took one of our spaceships and left. I haven't seen him since."

That too-wide grin again. "Are you sure?"

"Yep," she says, putting on her best company president voice—the one that makes people shut up and do whatever she says. "He's gone."

"Interesting," the creature says, then holds up something. A piece of paper. She squints, trying to see what the writing says, but it's too overexposed in the firelight. "Then I wonder why this says "Vital signs; Subject: Vegeta." It's dated two terran days ago."

Fuck.

"Care to explain?"

She'd been recalibrating the gravity simulator and needed a benchmark of Vegeta's current rate of metabolic processes in conjunction with his age. She must have left her notebook open on one of the front lab spaces. Of course _that_ didn't go up in flames.

"You see," the creature says, coming forward, its hips swinging jauntily, "Vegeta and I go back a long way. When Lord Frieza went to a planet called Namek, Vegeta followed, and I lost contact with him. There are… things we need to discuss. He owes me a debt; I've come to collect it."

Her heart skips a beat with every step closer the creature comes. It stops maybe half a foot away, and from such a short distance she can see that the scales around its missing eye have been scorched by something that smacks of a ki blast. She can guess what kind of debt Vegeta owes this thing.

Its free hand-appendage shoots out and grabs hold of her hair, yanking her head back to force her to look it in the eye. She grits her teeth against the scream that wants freedom when her ribs jar.

"I do not take pleasure in harming those who have not slighted me," it says gently, and lifts its other hand-appendage to press the barrel against the curve of her jaw.

"You blew up my lab without even having met me," Bulma snaps. "Forgive me if I don't believe that."

"I understand that you are frightened, so I will attribute your lie and insolence to nerves. I am going to ask again, and if you try to deceive me, I will—"

"Kill me," she interjects, curling her hand into a fist. The glove feels reassuringly tight. "Yeah, I get that."

It smiles. "Not just you, human. I will hunt down every single person you love, and I will use _your_ own bones to kill them. Do you understand me?"

Her hand, where it hangs by her hip, unfurls—palm out, fingers splayed. _Still fine._ "Yes."

"Good." The blaster doesn't waver. "Now. Tell me where Vegeta is."

A shiver draws its icy fingers up the length of her spine, fear and pain warring in every nerve, and for a moment she thinks she might actually pass out from the sensory overload. Spots wink in and out in front of her eyes, and she washes them away by blinking through the gathering of tears there.

Breathing out shakily, Bulma turns slightly to glance over her shoulder and just before she moves to give the creature her full attention again, something snags her gaze.

Oh.

Well.

"I wasn't lying when I said Vegeta isn't here," she says, turning back. She makes sure to look straight into its remaining eye when she continues, "but I can call him."

It lowers the blaster, but its grip on her hair threatens to rip off her scalp. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I can bring him here."

"Do it."

"Our communication device is in the back. Just let me go and get it—"

It lifts the blaster again and motions it toward the back of the lab. "We will go together."

"What, don't you trust me?" She musters up a grin. Her hair whispers around her shoulders as the creature releases her.

" _Ke-ke-ke-ke_. Go."

She doesn't dare reach up to rub the pain in her scalp, so she slowly turns her back and lifts her foot to move. Something hard jabs into the back of her head: the mouth of the blaster pressing a threat into her skull. Of course. It's not unexpected, but her heart pounds so loud that it has to be audible anyway. The creature doesn't comment on it. Together they begin walking, the knife in her ribs slicing with every step, but her feet are steady, her eyes fixed front and center.

Until she slows to a stop.

"What?" It demands, nudging her head with the blaster.

Without turning her head, she points to the counter to her right. "Can you pick that up and bring it with you, please?"

"Why do you want it? And remember what I said about lying—"

She heaves a frustrated sigh. "Look, I'd grab it myself but I'm trying not to make any sudden movements here. I just figured I'd put it where it belongs since we're going to the back of the lab anyway. It's completely harmless."

"Then why do you want _me_ to carry it?" The creature asks, which is a fair question.

"So you don't shoot me in the head if _I_ reach for it," Bulma snaps. "Look, if you're so scared, leave it. I'll put it back later."

There's a mechanical click that hits her ears like thunder, and she inhales reflexively, waiting for the smell of burnt hair and bone to hit her, but there's nothing. The blaster didn't fire. The creature leans to the left and takes the gummy bear into its other hand-appendage, bringing it close to its chest. "I am not scared."

"Fantastic. Can we keep going?"

It nudges her once more with the blaster and she walks a few more steps. "That's it, right there. The communication device."

They both come to a stop by the counter and, slowly, she turns toward it, reaching out.

The creature watches, curious. " _That_ is a communication device?"

"Oh, did I say communication? I meant _combustion_."

With that, Bulma grabs the beaker of molten potassium chlorate out of the isomantle and hurls it at the creature as hard as she can. The glass hits its armor, but it doesn't break—borosilicate glass wouldn't, but it _does_ spill its contents right onto the gummy bear in its arm.

The reaction is instantaneous.

She has no idea what kind of evolutionary advantage those feathery scales are supposed to give the creature, but they go up in a brilliant show of light, heat, and energy. Throwing herself to the side, she hits the floor hard and curls into the fetal position out of both excruciating pain and necessity. If the thing starts shooting in a panic, she'll be safer if she presents a smaller target. But if its screams of agony are any indication, this is going to be over relatively quickly.

Pushing painfully to sit up against the cabinet door of the counter, she watches the creature fall to the floor, dead, the fire still burning through the gummy bear it had reflexively clutched to itself during the initial combustion. It takes almost six minutes for the fire to peter out, and when it does, it reveals the horror left in its wake. The scales are gone, completely burned away, leaving scorched chitin and an odd gelatinous sheen behind.

There's a sudden burst of movement. Bulma shrieks, but quiets, panting, as little arms wrap around her waist. Shivering, Trunks presses into her. She groans through the pain and lifts an arm to curl around his back, fingers sliding into his hair to keep his cheek against her breast.

"Mama," he whispers, and through her shirt Bulma can feel the hot press of his tears. "Oxidation is _so_ cool."

A laugh bursts out of her, high-pitched and reedy, and she clutches him closer. "Told you."

* * *

 **\+ Coda**

He smells the smoke and hears the sirens long before he sees them.

Below, the roof of the lab looks as though someone tore an enormous chunk out of it, but he can tell immediately that this was not the result of an explosion from within. The blast came from outside. As if of their own volition, his hands tremble themselves into hard fists, and the song of vengeance roars in his ears like a long-lost friend. His rage clouds his eyes, blinds him. To attack the place he has come to call home so brazenly—

Something bright and steady bumps up against him and it relaxes the muscles in his back, his belly; feeling Trunks's ki signature doesn't lessen the need to fight something but the immediacy softens. He crests over the dome of the main building and descends where the lab is barely standing. Red and blue lights flash, blindingly, and there is a smattering of fire trucks still fighting the last of the blaze, but his attention is arrested by a flash of lavender and bold crimson on pale skin.

His feet hit the ground, reassuringly solid, and forces the tide of blood raging in his ears down enough to hear, "... don't care if you don't have any openings. Cancel on someone. I'll pay you to reschedule. I'll pay your _client_ to reschedule. I'll even give you ten-thousand zeni if you open up early and take me first thing in the morning, but I really, really need to chop this shit off."

Bulma's sitting on the back of an ambulance, shouting into a phone, while Trunks hovers anxiously nearby as if he can't bear to let her out of his sight. On her other side, a young woman in a uniform is swabbing at the deep gash at Bulma's hairline, the bulb of cotton stained so red it looks black.

"Ow, _ow,_ don't touch it," Bulma snaps, batting at the EMT's hands. "Don't touch it. I'm fine."

"Ms. Briefs, you need stitches," the young woman says firmly. "And we need to get you to the hospital for your ribs."

"I've got a friend coming by with something, so back off." She focuses back on the phone pressed to her ear. "No, not you. Look, fit me in or I'm finding another stylist. I'm not spending another moment with long hair if I can help it. Good. Good, thank you. No, I meant it about the ten grand. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow. Yep. Bye."

Trunks crosses his arms. "Mama, you need to listen to her."

"It's nothing a senzu can't fix, baby. Krillin's on his way." Bulma ends her call with a vicious stab to the screen and then slips the phone into the scorched pocket of her lab coat. Pushing the EMT away with a gentle, but firm hand, Bulma slides off her makeshift seat with a pained grunt and looks up.

His skin tingles when her gaze meets his, and for a second it feels as if he is in the middle of a battle, facing off against his opponent, the two of them equally matched and struggling to navigate the impasse.

She smiles a little and gives a small wave, and the tension breaks.

Trunks follows her gaze and lights up. "Papa!"

Evening out his breathing, Vegeta walks over to them, eyeing the deep wound on Bulma's forehead, still sluggishly oozing despite the EMT's best efforts, and the burn marks on her neck and collarbone. It takes all of his considerable power to not reach out for her, to feel for himself that she is fine. He clenches his hand into a fist.

"What happened." It doesn't come out as neutrally as he'd hoped. The EMT flinches back from the rage in his voice.

Bulma shrugs, then winces, her hand flying to cup her ribs. "One of your old buddies came for a visit."

"Mama killed him with _science_ ," Trunks chimes in. His eyes shine with pride as he looks at her. "It was awesome."

"Who was it? Why didn't you stop him? Have I taught you nothing?" He looks at the damage to the lab, to Bulma, and bites down on the things he wants to say to his idiot boy, who cowers under the force of his anger.

"Yeah, that's enough." A gentle hand slides over his jaw, a balm for his rage, and he struggles not to drown in the cool blue of her eyes. "Trunks didn't jump in because I told him not to, and because he's a good boy, he listened to his mama."

"You arrogant, little _idiot_ ," Vegeta breathes against her palm. "You could have been killed."

She smiles and pats his cheek before stepping back. "Could've, would've, should've. I handled it just fine on my own, thanks. Anytime you want to congratulate me for taking down someone from the Frieza Force, feel free."

"Mama said that brains are just as strong as fists," Trunks mumbles, ashamed.

"And _this_ brain kicked serious ass." She points to her head with a proud grin.

Could've, would've, should've.

Whoever came looking for him did so with the intention of killing him, and they would have had no qualms about murdering anyone else to get to him. Perhaps they didn't know what she was to him. Perhaps they did. Perhaps it never came up. But for someone without measurable ki to go against someone from the Frieza Force and _win_ …

He thinks of her last night, sitting up in the bed they share, her hair a mess, her attention on a new creation, and she still matched him blow for blow—all with a smile on her face. He imagines rolling over and reaching out, only to find the sheets cold, empty. An ache yawns open in his gut.

It could, would, should be so easy to lose her.

"Anyway, I'm fine. Just a few bumps and bruises; I had worse when Gero shot my plane down that time. Krillin's probably only a few minutes away," she says, smiling, and her face is completely devoid of expectation. It burns to not see it there among the evidence of the pain and suffering he's caused her.

"Mama, you should go to the hospital anyway." Trunks takes her hand in both of his and peers up at her through his light lashes. "What if the senzu doesn't fix everything?"

"That's the beauty of senzu, baby," Bulma says brightly. "They _do_ fix everything."

Vegeta watches them, unmoored, overcome by the urge to pull them both to him and just… breathe. Instead, he sniffs and nods at her hair. "Why are you cutting it?"

The smile on her face freezes, twisting into something odd. "Time for a change. It's nothing."

"If it were nothing, you wouldn't be so adamant about getting rid of it."

"... It grabbed me by the hair," she finally says. Her eyes, where they swivel in the direction of the smoldering lab, are hard, and her lips pull into a thin line. "I'm not going to make it so easy for the next person who tries."

It's a striking image: Bulma fearlessly staring down someone exponentially stronger, her short hair matted with blood and ash. Saiyan in all but blood. No, not saiyan: something uniquely her. The corners of his lips twitch.

"All right." She surveys the damage of the lab with a sigh, her shoulders stooping with exhaustion, her frail body radiating pain. Standing around are dozens of Capsule Corp employees, all dazed and terrified, uncertain about how to proceed without explicit direction. They're all looking to her. "Time to play president."

Without warning, he loses his grip on the reins of his most basic urge and his hand, traitorous bastard, lifts to press against the small of her back.

"Trunks," he barks, and his son jerks to attention. "Come help your mother."

"Wh—Vegeta, stop. I'm fine."

He presses her forward, his forearm steadying her, as Trunks comes up on her right, her hand in his, and leans to support her weight on the left.

"Humor me until the senzu gets here," Vegeta growls, lifting his chin to present an image of strength for the idiots milling about. At the sight of Bulma, a few of the employees gasp; one woman lets out a tearful shriek.

"All right, everyone." Her voice is firm, steady—as solid as the grip they have on her. "It looks worse than it is, I promise. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

When they move forward, they do it as one.


End file.
